


Present

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), M/M, Other, PowerPoint, Quote: Can I Hear a Wahoo? (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), You might have to squint a bit relationship wise, before the trials, but they're definitely in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: The night after Armageddon fails, Aziraphale has a nap and Crowley has an idea.(Show!verse)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 97





	Present

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea written down for ages so I thought I'd finally write it. Apparently, a lot of the ideas I have in my enormous GO prompt file are really sad, and I'm not really up for writing that sort of thing at the moment. So I am, tentatively, taking happier requests if you want to send them to me on Tumblr (@sameoldsorceress). Just for housekeeping reasons, I'd rather I get requests there than in the comments, please.
> 
> Anyway. Have a thing that is only kind of sad, and a bit silly. Enjoy!
> 
> (Oh - and if you've commented on any of my fics recently, I will get round to replying. Promise.)

Aziraphale didn’t usually sleep, but his new corporation hadn’t quite settled right yet, and he found himself yawning as they got off the bus. Crowley had been still and quiet, not quite sleeping but not necessarily _awake_ , for most of the journey, and his hand had been firm in Aziraphale’s own for all that time, but now he pulled away, looking worried.

“All right, angel?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m quite fine, dear boy. Just in need of some sleep, I think.” 

“You don’t sleep.”

“New corporation, I suppose,” Aziraphale shrugged. “Perhaps it simply needs bedding in, as it were.”

“Bedding in-” Crowley’s mind seemed to stumble over the phrase for a moment, but then his mouth twisted, the way it did when Aziraphale said things like _tickety-boo_ , and Aziraphale was so enraptured by the expression that he almost missed Crowley’s next words. “Oh, right, well, you have my bed. I can take the sofa.” He pushed the door to his flat open as he spoke, and Aziraphale found himself standing in a dark, minimalist space.

“Oh, how lovely,” he said, and meant it - because although this was as far from his imagining of _home_ as Aziraphale could get, it was very much suited to Crowley. And, in truth, Crowley himself was just as much a part of Aziraphale’s concept of _home_ as the bookshop- oh, the bookshop. It was all gone, burned to ashes. The ruins of his life; he might have to face it one of these days. For now, he seized upon the first thing he saw and tried to make light conversation. “You’ve got a statue-!”

“Yeah, ignore that, come right through.” Crowley took him by the arm and dragged him towards his bedroom, which could have been a great deal more difficult for him if Aziraphale hadn’t been so distracted by the point of contact between them. It was also distracting because he had imagined Crowley taking him to bed on several occasions, particularly over the last century, and although he’d never imagined it would be so abrupt, his brain was having trouble separating sordid fantasy from innocent reality. “Here, my- my bed.”

Crowley, it seemed, had just realised the implications of his words, because he turned a distinctly interesting shade of pink and turned away.

“It’s not too fast if I take the sofa,” he muttered under his breath, apparently under the impression that Aziraphale was deaf as well as tired. Aziraphale wanted to make some sort of comment about the fact that his new corporation’s ears worked perfectly, but his mouth felt too dry. He opted to brush past it.

“Are you sure? I’m happy to take the-”

“No, no, you’re my guest. Besides, you’re out of practice. Sleeping, I mean. Might as well be comfortable, get a good start on it. I’ll be…” He gestured vaguely towards the door, then moved towards it.

“Wait!” There was no reason Crowley should stay. There was no way to _ask_ him to stay. “Er. Heaven and Hell, they’re angry. Shouldn’t we come up with some sort of-” He had to interrupt himself to yawn discreetly into his hand. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. Some sort of plan?”

“Later, angel. There’ll be time later. You’re no good to anyone if you’re half asleep. Gonna need that brain of yours at full speed.”

“And yours,” Aziraphale pointed out, “you will sleep, won’t you?”

“I told you. I’ll be right out there.”

And if Aziraphale had really thought about it, he’d have taken issue with the demon’s phrasing. But he was tired, and Crowley was already slipping through the door, and the bed was as soft and inviting as he had always suspected Crowley’s bed would be.

“Good night,” he called, as he settled beneath the covers, and was asleep before Crowley’s answer could reach his ears.

He woke with a start, uncertain for a moment where he was or what had wakened him. _Crowley’s flat. Crowley’s voice._ The demon was not in the room; Aziraphale crept from the bed and padded warily to the closed door, opening it a crack to check for danger.

“Crowley?”

“Shit!” There was a frantic sort of clattering, and then Crowley appeared before him, looking flustered and, most significantly in Aziraphale’s mind, distinctly unrested. “Angel. Hi. Everything all right? Bed… OK?”

“Yes- yes, it was fine, but I heard… Have you been awake all this time?”

“Er. Yeah. I, er, I was thinking about that prophecy you- yeah.”

Aziraphale was casting his eyes around him as Crowley spoke; the statue he’d noticed, which he’d barely had a chance to glimpse before he was rushed into the bedroom, now seemed to have some sort of cloth draped over it. Crowley was, apparently, quite keen to keep its beauty to himself. More importantly, though, Aziraphale couldn’t see anything that even vaguely resembled a sofa. _Where were you going to sleep, my dear?_

“There’s no sofa,” he pointed out, and Crowley snapped his fingers. Suddenly, there a sofa was, and _of course_ Crowley could have just miracled one in and out again if he’d wanted to sleep. Which, it seemed, he hadn’t.

“Sit,” Crowley ordered, looking impossibly _more_ exhausted than he had just a moment earlier, and Aziraphale wondered how much power could be left in the poor demon. He’d done impossible things, today, things Aziraphale couldn’t begin to imagine doing, let alone one after the other, and now he was snapping his fingers for silly things like sofas he clearly had no intention of sleeping on.

Before Crowley could do anything _really_ stupid, like snap his fingers to move Aziraphale to where he wanted him, Aziraphale sat. He half expected Crowley to sit beside him - _more_ than half expected it, really - but the demon surprised him by vanishing into another room and returning with a laptop computer and some sort of lamp. A projection machine, Aziraphale realised, as Crowley set it up to project on the wall in front of him. How clever! But what did he need it for?

Crowley stood beside the lit portion of the wall, the light catching him just so, and Aziraphale spared a thought to wish Crowley knew he needn’t have bothered. He was always beautiful, even when the harsh light of the projector wasn’t picking out delicate bronze strands of his hair, highlighting his cheekbones, the shape of his nose, the shadowed hollow beneath his adam’s apple. How like Crowley, to shine so brightly in such brutal lighting; he had always found a way to thrive in harsh circumstances.

“So. Um. I was thinking about the prophecy you showed me, and we were on the bus, and- I had a thought, it might sound like a crazy idea, but-”

“Slow down, my dear. You’re not making sense.”

“-I think I know how we can survive this.”

Aziraphale knew he was staring at Crowley like some sort of idiot, but he couldn’t help it. A way out of whatever punishment Heaven and Hell had in store for them? It sounded almost too good to be true.

“Well, by all means explain. I’m all ears.”

“Right. Yeah. Er, where’s…” And to Aziraphale’s astonishment, Crowley pulled a little button and a piece of paper out of the pocket of his jeans - where Aziraphale had thought not a single atom could fit - and began to read. “How to Survive After the Apocalypse. By the Demon Crowley.” He clicked the button, and the words appeared beside him in the light of the projector. They made a sound like a typewriter clacking; Aziraphale was oddly charmed by the effect. There wasn’t time to dwell on it, though, as the writing on the wall changed.

_Angels and demons are opposites._

“Angels and demons, as we know, are opposites, right? So if you wanted to kill an angel and a demon, you’d have to do it separately. There’s two different methods.” He clicked again, and a new slide appeared, this time with a spiral effect and a _whoosh_ noise.

_Angels = Good. Strengths: blessings, having Her favour. Weapons: Holy Water, smiting. Weaknesses: Hellfire._

“Angels are pretty strong, and if you want to kill them, you’ve got to use Hellfire. The prophecy mentioned playing with fire, so… it seems like that’s what they’re going to try to do to you.”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his seat; he didn’t need reminding of that. Crowley clicked onto the next slide.

_Demons = Evil. Strengths: sneaky, don’t have to worry about pissing Her off. Weapons: Hellfire. Weaknesses: Holy Water, smiting._

“Demons aren’t quite as resilient, but you’ve got to catch them first. Smiting’s only really a problem if She gets involved, and when was the last time that happened? Ages ago, that’s when. And She’s got a short temper, so if She’d been planning to punish us personally, it would have happened by now. So for me, it’s Holy Water. It’s got to be.”

Aziraphale _definitely_ didn’t want to think about that. He nodded for Crowley to continue, and the demon clicked his little button again. When had he put this little presentation together, Aziraphale wondered, and why on earth did he feel that he needed to?

 _What if they weren’t?_ That was the writing on the wall, and Crowley turned to him with what appeared to be mounting desperation. Aziraphale didn’t understand; didn’t Crowley know he’d follow him anywhere, now? That he’d do anything to keep him safe?

“So- so I don’t know whether they’re going to do some sort of prisoner exchange, or- or if they’re going to get their hands on each other’s weapons, somehow- but I think our only chance is to not be what they expect. To… to be each other. An angel that looks like a demon, well… he could drink any amount of Holy Water. And Hellfire doesn’t hurt demons. If- if we change faces,” he finished, clicking the button one last time, and Agnes’ words appeared on the wall.

 _Choose your faces wisely, for soon enough you will be playing with fire._ “If we choose our faces wisely… we can survive.” Crowley smiled, a little hesitantly, that smile he always wore when he felt vulnerable, when he felt far from smiling. “Can I hear a wahoo?”

“Wahoo,” Aziraphale said, solemnly, and then, as his brain caught up with his ears, “wahoo! Oh, Crowley, you’ve done it! You clever thing, you’ve found a way to save us!”

“Wa… wahoo?” Crowley managed, and then, “I have?”

“Of course you have, because you’re a genius- all we have to do is change our corporations!”

“And pretend to be each other,” Crowley added doubtfully, “they mustn’t suspect-”

“We’ve known each other 6000 years, I daresay we could impersonate one another in our sleep-”

“I might have to,” Crowley admitted, “I’m exhausted.”

“I’m not surprised- but what on earth did you go to all this trouble for?” Crowley’s face fell and Aziraphale hurried to correct his mistake. “Don’t get me wrong, it was a wonderful presentation, but- you must know you could have just told me. I’d have followed anywhere you led.”

“I had to be convincing,” Crowley countered, the bewilderment clear on his face. “I’m asking you to _go to Hell in my place_ , potentially. It had to be- I had to-”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts, with a sudden flash of understanding, “is this what you had to do to get Hell to praise your efforts?”

“Praise? Hah.” There was no mirth in the sound. “I never got _praise_ from Hell. I never…” His lip trembled slightly, twisted into a disinterested sneer as if by reflex. “I never got a wahoo before.”

“Oh, Crowley. My dear.” Aziraphale reached out and took both the demon’s hands into his own. “You can have as many wahoos as you want from me.”

And then, because he could, because Crowley watched him wide-eyed from behind his glasses and made no move to stop him, he stood on his toes to kiss Crowley on the forehead.

“Sleep now. In your bed. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

“Will you-?” But Crowley stopped, moved towards the bedroom door, apparently forgetting Aziraphale’s hands still wrapped firmly around his.

“Will I-?”

“Watch over me?” For all his obvious anxiety, Crowley gave him a crooked grin, one that Aziraphale could believe in. “Got Hell after my blood, after all. Could do with a guardian angel.”

“Of course I will,” Aziraphale promised, and then he led the demon to his bed, tucked the blankets around him even as the demon tried to apologise for what he’d asked. “Of course I will,” he repeated softly, as he kissed Crowley’s forehead once more - a promise and a comfort in one - and settled down beside him.

“Wahoo,” Crowley murmured, and slipped into sleep.


End file.
